Until All Are One
by LediShae
Summary: Before Optimus was Prime, before Ironhide was his bodyguard Cybertron was peaceful. This is the tale of one life that has changed with the tides of war and will form the link between the last and next Golden Age. OC main character. Crossover between G1 and movieverse. First chapter edited, reposted.
1. First Thread

**A/N:** This is an idea I've been playing around with since before the first Bay-verse movie came out. No warnings yet, please read and review.

Mostly G1, may develop movie-verse elements. Transformers belong to Hasbro Takara and all other creators.

* * *

"Hope, report!" The command was barked out over the bustling surgical ward, startling the small grey and white Junior Surgeon working on the still form of Senior Surgeon Slipback. The younger, one of the most promising barely glanced up, faceplates calm despite the severity of the internal damages he faced.

"Stabilized, introducing energon feeds. Neural net repairs commencing." The youngling kept his voice level, impressing his superiors, and advancing his standings in the graduating class from the medical academy. Several other Junior surgeons glanced from their work, scowling at the prized pupil. Hope had been brought here unconscious, unable to remember where he had come from, or who his creators had been. Then he had awoken, and had shown an immediate aptitude for medicine that led most to believe he had been the private student of one of the elite medics. No one could tell for sure.

Recent attacks from growing gangs had shaken Crystal Island, the lofty, floating island home of Cybertron's most elite upper class citizens. The shimmering silver hued crystals contained pockets of lighter than atmosphere Infinima gas that kept it buoyant in the heavy methane rich atmosphere. Several lineages had been decimated, the attacks seemingly random in nature only served to stir unrest in the lesser classes and fear in everyone as chunks of the heavy ruined crystals rained down deactivation on the lower masses.

Hope returned his attention to the torn neural network connecting relays from his patient's logic core to his extremities. The fine filaments had to be handled gently, chrio-cooled to extremely low temperatures to allow their structures to become malleable. Otherwise, mending the torn sections with fresh filaments would result in fraying and loss of neural sensitivity.

Few knew how he had become so advanced in his studies – fewer had ever asked. The young mech forced his attention once more on his patient, slightly smug to see that his lapse in focus had not caused any faults within the filaments. His work continued fluidly, making his station the one silent point in a busy bay.

Seeming orns later Hope finally left Slipback to the nurse attendants and moved to another berth. There were many wounded, and this shift was part of his full orn rotation mending the worst of injuries. He felt pride in his circuits as he worked. He had strove hard to reach this point in his studies, and he had proved himself to be one of, if not the best in his class. He knew he was the best, but he would never flaunt it. He hated the prancing idiots who flaunted their skills. Those idiots normally hesitated when they faced life threatening injuries.

'Yes, if I ever have my own clinic my first rule will be to never hesitate.' Hope nodded to himself, placing that thought in his memory files for later retrieval. One orn, when exactly he didn't know, but eventually, he would have his own clinic. One with a resident engineer and circuit specialist to work for him making replacement components as needed to reduce the storage requirements of standard parts and be better able to keep the specialized mechs fully functional.

As his shift continued he allowed his subroutines to focus on the patients while he focused on his dream. Eventually he would have the best clinic in all of Cybertron. When that day came all would know Hope, and all would respect the best.

* * *

"_Designation: Hope. Operation: Infiltrate Iacon Academy. Goal: Attain a highest position possible. All others expendable, set redundant memory suppression on my mark – mark! Designation: Hope –" _

Hope forced himself from his recharge cycle, vents cycling too fast as his logic circuits rebooted to remind him where he was. Unusual cobalt optics looked over the small shelf he lay upon, one of many in the dorm, he alone was out of recharge. With a sigh he once more lay back.

He had been here nine vorns, his masters demanding he put in the standard time at the Academy despite having completed all his courses and passed every exam. He was, by virtue of the exams, a senior medic but he was still designated a junior. His glyphs had been withheld, and would continue to be thus for another fifteen vorns. The unfairness and cruelty to keep his skills from aiding others galled him.

Hope twitched uncomfortably, memory file replaying itself of his recharge flux. Because of his enforced residency here at the Academy he had access to every senior medic within the Northern Quadrant and their CMOs, his test placement privileges allowed him full use of all medical databanks and the Cybertron library, and granted him the freedom to access any other database on Cybertron, even Decepticon Military Medical databases. And the insidious voice deep within his core processes that erased itself with every on-cycle instigated his curiosity into outside research.

He knew he knew too much, that if ever someone wanted to hurt another all they needed to do was tap into his memory cortex. The thoughts were terrifying. As he lie there his thoughts spun, whirled with his vain pride at his accomplishments and humble fear of hurting another. Yet as he chased his thoughts his recharge cycle reengaged and once more he fell off-line.

"…_Infiltrate the Iacon Academy …"_

Hope surged from recharge once more, finally goading himself from the dorm and out into the silent halls. He shuddered from the memory fragment of his creator's voice, that horrid voice! When a youngling is created, Hope knew from experience, they were to remain inactive during their core processes implant. Hope was not given that privilege. He had been aware as a small speck of consciousness as his creator had _dumped_ entire memory core transfers into his still developing memory cortex. Entire caches of past medics filled his storage space, forcing him to resort to self upgrades by implanting additional memory chips into his own cranial unit just to keep up with the horrific process his creator had started.

He did not understand the reason for his thievery. Why did he need the memories from so many medics? More importantly, why had it taken him nine vorns to realize it? He had begun to get suspicious when his focus would wander while working on a senior medic. Whenever he refocused he found a data line hard linked into his patient's transfer port – and a high frequency data stream transferring unidirectionally, _to _him. Then the memory fragment resurfaced. The time stamp was from two hundred thousand astroseconds before he awoke in the Academy nine vorns ago.

He had yet to remember his creator's name. He knew it was in his databanks, under the restrictions from the redundant memory suppression forced on him. 'Wave, his creator's name was so close, _something_-wave. His pedes echoed hollowly in the empty corridors, during off cycle all on-cycle mechs rested while off-cycle mechs were busy at work. The two cycle shifts shared berth space, none of the medical students having possessions of their own. Finally, he resurfaced from his thoughts finding himself in the bowls of Cybertron far below the Academy.

"Welcome, youngling" A voice spoke from the glittering expanse.

"Greetings, elder" Hope replied with a respectful bow, "Where am I?"

"You stand in the Hall of Light, here we Disciples of Primus pray for the longevity and eternal survival of Cybertron, the Frame of Primus." The old orange and green mech smiled kindly down at Hope.

"Why is it here under the Academy?" Hope moved through the hall, pacing beside the disciple as he took in the vast, echoing space filled with a radiance emanating from the wall plating itself allowing no shadows to exist within the sanctuary.

"Once, long ago this was the highest point on Cybertron. Our roof held a beacon that heralded the return of long distance Decepticon troops letting them know that they were home. Yet time, and a forgotten era of chaos destroyed our beacon, and new cities have been built over the old."

"You mean, the construction division enlarges Cybertron with every construction project?" Hope asked amazed, looking at the archaic design of the hall in renewed amazement.

"Correct, youngling. Now, what has brought you to our humble temple?"

"I could not recharge. I am in training to be a medic." Hope swallowed tightly, his fuel intakes puling in discomfort with the bitter reality of his position as trainee. "I am not boasting, I know more than any of the medic professors. I have led several classes, been brought into the hospitals of six quadrants for assistance and have been allowed to volunteer as Senior Assistant Medic in sixteen Decepticon peace missions. I've had to take over for junior surgeons, senior surgeons, field medics, triage ward managers and Senior medics. But, they keep me in the Academy as a student, they will not grant me my crosses and there are entire districts out there thronging with the impoverished masses relying on only one or two volunteer medics.

"The over taxed medics and ignored patients need me to graduate and help with the workload, but my professors keep refusing to allow my graduation. I am useless within the academy." Hope hung his head, wishing with all his might he could follow his spark and aid the poor, the impoverished and the destitute. He wanted to open a clinic near the mining colonies, treat the former Decepticon Soldiers who had turned to mining, the poorest and hardest working of their numbers.

"The medics of the Academy are not known for their cruelty nor their ignorance. If they keep you there it is for a very good reason. Youngling, come with me, there is something that may help bring you peace." The pair made their way to the furthest corner of the temple, where a dreary statue sat neglected in a forlorn corner.

"This, youngling, is Falcate. He was the greatest medic known to Cybertron, and he was the founder of the Covenant of Light." He gestured to the shimmering, pristine white statue. Falcate was terrifying to behold, multiple crimson optics stared from his elongated face, plates jutted out from the sides of his lower mandible that even with being just a stature, still moved and shifted as if waiting for an age old answer to a silent question.

"I can feel him." Hope breathed, as something deep within his spark stirred.

"I had hoped for this, you hold within your laser core a resonance with the Light, come with me, and be blessed into the covenant. By vowing to the light you are giving your spark to Primus and requesting His guidance, willing to serve as His disciple in preserving the life of all others."

Hope felt his plating tingle and his spark lean towards the statue, "Yes, I would like that." Hope murmured as the vows of joining the covenant sped past in a blur until finally a series of glyphs were carved into his suddenly revealed protoform marking his as a disciple. "There, you are part of the Covenant and one with us. Should you need guidance, or aid, we will know and we will help in any way we can."

Hope smiled, suddenly realizing that for the entirety of his nine vorn life he had quested and searched for this – acceptance. He smiled, bowed and headed back to the dorms. While he felt too excited to recharge in the few remaining groons he had left before shift he could not go against his programming, which would make him perform in a normal manner regardless of how lagging his systems were from lack of recharge. He sighed and he began initiating his recharge protocols as he traveled, he hated feeling sluggish while his body worked at a normal speed. It felt disconcerting, as if he were being controlled by another mech.

* * *

Despite knowing his creator had enforced coercion upon his core systems, Hope was somewhat grateful for them. He had visited the Temple of Light repeatedly since his discovery over the past few joor. Yet as his confidence and calmness grew within, violence continued to escalate beyond the academy walls. The gangs had attacked again this orn, this time trapping every emergency response medic near Stanix, the peaceful Decepticon training base. Hope ran with other medics to the staging sight. They had to transport out to Stanix and aid the local medics there as well as treat any recovered medics from the Iacon Emergency Response Team.

Hope cycled his vents, excited and anxious to leave the Academy. He felt desperate to be able to make some good come from the evil he had done under the coercion within his programming. The halls echoed with the pounding treads of him and his colleges. For the first time in his memory grudges were set aside and all the medics functioned as a cohesive whole. Beside him ran Stradux, the one mech who had made Hope's life here miserable. Yet today Stradux only focused on what needed to be done, and Hope thanked Primus for the blessing.

The crew of twenty assembled medics, assistants, technicians and their accompanying six guards boarded the transport orbiter, launching over the metal skyline of Iacon. "Bots, our brethren of Iacon have vanished from radar. Stranix cannot give us details to their status. Lord Prime has requested two medics to join our forming search crew, headed by Special Autobot Rescue Squad Delta. This is a combined Autobot-Decepticon maneuver, whoever volunteers will be working with both our elite soldiers and elite peacekeepers. Questions?" Chief Senior Surgeon Broadspin towered over every mech seated in the transport, and Hope felt his small size more so than ever before. As the silence stretched on Broadspin nodded approvingly, "Then I need at least two volunteers. Those so inclined, ping your transponders."

Hope pinged his signature frequency to Braodspin before the senior mech even finished speaking, earning himself a slight scowl for his impudence, but Hope did not care. There were mechs that needed help and of everyone on the transport he was the most qualified. Once more the silence in the transport stretched, some fidgeted, and others began low conversations or kept to private comm only. Finally, just as Hope was beginning to think his request had been ignored Broadspin stepped forward once more.

"Well, congratulations, Hope, Stradux. You're on rescue detail. Everyone else, report directly to Guardian Prime. He's heading this operation personally. You know your duties, check all supplies and gear. Hope, Stradux, safe travels. Until all are one."

* * *

Hope refocused his attention, unnerved that his mind had wandered again while repairing a fellow medic. They had found the Iacon medics four orns ago, every one of them damaged severely. Stradux had been working on damage control, leaving final stabilization to Hope. Despite their differences and Stradux having been Hope's bane since awakening at the Academy, they made a decent team. Hope just prayed they were good enough.

"You two have done well. We have lost none." Guardian Prime looked the weary medics over, approving the positive state of the many patients. "Hope, are many stable enough for transport?"

Hope nodded, internally cringing at Stradux's scowl at being overlooked. "Yes, all are stable or will be. Begin the loading with Shunt and Drasus." Hope pointed to the mechs on the opposite end of the triage line as he turned back to his patient, mending the last few slow energon leaks before stepping back for Prime and his team to finish loading the last of the medics. With the last loaded the two medics sagged and gratefully climbed into one of the armored fighters allowing the larger mech to take them safely to the next staging site.

They sagged in waiting seats, sitting in silence as their systems wound down. Around the two healers several warrior models stood in tight ranks, all in silent recharge. The dark, silent figures showed little life signs save for the humming of idling systems.

"Why are you still on-line?" Stradux demanded, startling Hope from his silent musings. Hope startled, found himself on his pedes and backing away from his spiteful, unhappy partner.

"We still have patients and responsibilities waiting for us. Until I know my patients are properly cared for, I won't be able to sleep." Hope looked away and shrugged helplessly. He had tried to cycle down, attempted everything he knew to silence overactive processors while feeling strangely too awake and yet completely exhausted. Yet, nothing worked, his mind kept repeating the injuries from earlier that orn, noting how they seemed off from the report.

Stradux, however stared at Hope with unalloyed disgust as he looked the smaller, white healer over with furious optics. "So that's what you're doing, you're using gels, aren't you? Just to get the glory of saving the most lives! You sicken me." Stradux leapt to his feet, grabbed Hope by an exposed shoulder strut, and threw the smaller medic against the far wall of the transport. Hope screamed as he was flung, his frame effortlessly pushed open the transport's door and fell from the speeding Autobot, crashing into the wall just beyond the vehicle before grinding painfully down the wall to the ground and falling into darkness.

"_Designation: Hope. Set redundant memory suppression …  
_

* * *

A/N: So I know it's long and not much action, but aside from 'burn it' any ideas or suggestions?

P.S. A cookie to anyone who figures out who Hope is.


	2. First Knot

**A/N:** This is an idea I've been playing around with since before the first Bay-verse movie came out. No warnings yet, please read and review.

Mostly G1, may develop movie-verse elements. Transformers belong to Hasbro Takara and all other creators.

* * *

It had started one vorn ago, the deafening pounding of bombs with the outside echoing of gunfire. At first there were rumors of invasion from a distant planet slighted long ago during the last Great War. No one realized the true depth of the budding atrocities until nearly a generation's worth of violence had past. That was when the Decepticons, the long time protectors of Cybertron were discovered as the vicious enemy they now faced.

Neutrals were being slaughtered right and left. The Autobots, the policing force of their world, sought to find a means of once again attaining peace. They stood before, protected the non-biased civilian component of Cybertron. Yet it only seemed to anger the Decepticons further and increased their cruelty.

As time wore on the authorities sought to pinpoint the origin of the conflict. At first they believed street gangs had initiated this violence sometime during the long distant reign of Guardian Prime. Then, they claimed that disgruntled employees of the asteroid energon mines were causing the ruckus, taking out their anger of smaller rations and harder work on those who could protect themselves the least. Regardless of its origin, the violence was coming to a head, the energon trade was failing and countless mechanoids were facing starvation. The Elites, Neutrals who dwelt within the highest reaches of the Crystal Towers, still demanded ridiculously high rations without putting forth the work to obtain their fuel, many receiving huge quantities based on where they lived alone.

The energon trade was a biased system. The beautiful and least productive of the elite classes were granted stipends of energon for merely possessing aesthetically pleasing forms or transformation sequences they used to entertain others with. Those who worked the mines however were neither pleasing to the optics nor capable of performing feats of amazement. They worked the mines, former Decepticon soldiers who had outlived their usefulness to the ranks or heavy bots built specifically for the mines, never knowing another life outside their confining tunnels. Those Decepticons who could no longer fight or stand guard to protect Cybertron were sent to the mines, living out their final vorns in servitude to the Neutral elite who controlled the Council.

Finally it was believed that these crushed mechs with nothing to lose were the ones who took out their anger and pure meanness on the peaceful Neutrals who dwelt within the lower cities. Unfortunately, the early reports were wrong. It was not angry employees or thugs fighting over turf – it was war. The Decepticons, seeking to ensure the continuation of the Cybertronian race declared war on the Neutrals who were the guiding force in their world's escalating demise.

The only ones who were willing to do anything were the Volunteer troops of the Autobots. Their commander, Alpha Prime formerly of the Council had placed his troops squarely between the attacking Decepticons and the peaceful Neutrals who worked primarily as the many medics and protoform builders for all factions.

It was merely the beginning of the end, the first of many death throes of the last Golden Age.

* * *

The reverberating assault from outside vibrated the overcrowded halls. Within the dark, claustrophobic spaces its occupants crouched huddled together seeking the small comfort of familiarity in these strange and disturbing times of war. Groups who were once friends had now been forced to become units, their alliances strained as they learned of the underhanded dealings of their once beloved council.

The ruling council many had once thought to be filled with noble mechs had now shown its true face, all within had defied their oaths of office allowing greed to steal from them the loyalty of their people. Failing to lead their fellow Cybertronians as friends they had instead all sought to add to their illicitly gained hordes of energon stashed away in private vaults far from the starving masses that needed it greatly.

There had once been peace on all of Cybertron. The Deceptions were the standing Military guarding their planet and the many explorers and traders, while the Autobots were the policing and exploratory force. For ages the peace of the third Golden age allowed a new race to be born stemming from the need for idle mechs to have entertainment. This new race's numbers began to fill the roles of leaders, artisans and general populace. They made new alt forms, created art out of transformation sequences and demanded the creation of younglings that more resembled organic offspring seen on alien worlds.

Now, those same Neutrals were faced with fleeing, hiding or throwing off their mantels of pacifism for either the label of Decepticon or Autobot. Circles of friends were torn apart, shearing loyalties as feelings became hard. Many, however, found that they could not choose a side. Too afraid to fight they hid, secured themselves deep into forgotten pockets beneath the planet's surface. Here, many hid, some praying to live, others waiting to die.

The continuous pounding from the artillery fire left them little to do, except huddle and fear. The prolonged fear made most look back upon their lives, seeing their beliefs and actions in new light. One amongst their huddled number looked back upon his few vorns of life and found himself wanting to change what he had been. The easy life of being a standing guard for Neutral bound energon supply warehouses had given him a simple, lazy life filled with chasing femmes and mocking his elders. He knew how to fight, it was his passion next to his many weapons.

Only, now he found himself undecided. Should he fight with the Decepticons who had been slighted first? Or side with the Autobots who fought to protect the very mechs that had caused this catastrophe? Spark aching with the indecision, the young mech finally decided to let Primus, their God and Creator guide him. With a short prayer to protect him from his own stupidity he stood, a lone figure in the crowded hall, and saw around him the terrified optics of his friends, neighbors and once lovers, all confused and frightened.

They were Neutrals, yes and so was he, but to the last mech they were hard workers. None of them were the elite that kept private hordes. When times got hard they shared what they had, going on half rations so the entire block could stay on-line. The young mech tightened his fists, finally knowing where his spark would lead him. Overhead the pounding stopped, the will of Primus giving him this moment to take his new found fervor and escape.

"I ain't dyin' here fer another mech's war. Ah'm joinin' the Autobots an makin' a run fer it now. Any who want to fight the Decepticon creeps who waged war on us cause o' them slaggers in the council can come with, but I ain't forcin' ya. Primus protect ya'll cause I can't do it alone." The young mech spun on his heel and raced to the back exit, hoping to find a side byway that would allow him access to the surface without leading the Decepticons straight to the others.

"Ironhide, wait!" A mini-bot stood, his grey and purple coloring allowing him to blend into the darkness, "I'm coming with. I know, I'm a medic and I'm supposed to remain neutral to all quarrels, but if you're going out there to get yourself slagged then I'm coming with. You've always been there to watch my back when I've had an unruly patient, I guess now I'll return the favor."

Several of the many crowded forms stood from their crouches close to the floor, following Maincharger to Ironhide. The rest remained huddled close to each other and the ground all seeking to keep from being pulled with the suicidal mob. "Then let's get goin', time's a-wastin' an them 'Con's won't wait fer long ta start up again." The group strode to the back of the long chamber; slipping through a hidden access tunnel and faded, blending into the darkness of the underground until they found a disused freeway leading to the surface.

They folded into their alt modes, each riding low above the ground on pockets of air as they sped along the byway seeking the long unseen surface and the true face of the war. Whispered words were shared between their internal comm-links as they remembered better times and old familiar faces long lost. The journey was long, none recharging much through the resumed assault that seemed to now come from all directions.

According to their chronometers they had already been on the road for four orns when the bombardment finally ceased. It should have allowed them to cycle their vents easier, yet it only made them tense. Unable to hear where the fighting was centered, they now crept in their root forms clinging to the shadowed edges of the byway seeking out the many sheltered places as they moved along continually hoping to not accidentally run into a hiding Decepticon.

* * *

"More of the former neutrals are joinin' the Decepticons than not. Superior communications and control of the media are biasing their view on all news feeds. They're makin' the Neutrals out to be at the root of the conflict. The constant demands of the high Elites' for greater quantities of energon are being pinned on the working class Neutrals. Those who only work in fine art and entertainment, or who exist purely by their creator's will alone are becoming the scapegoats for the Council's hoardin'.

"No one's been listenin' to Prime's pleas that all council members should undergo a mandatory inventory check to confirm declared energon stores. The Decepticon commanders want to make others suffer for all that their retired comrades have been put through and the Neutrals were their easiest targets!" The Autobot on comm detail was ranting despite the many alerts and commands being broadcast through his consul.

His duty was to monitor all inbound and outgoing communication s for any hacks by the Decepticons or antagonizing Neutral factions. Although there were several comm workers that rotated shifts, he was one of the most skilled, being able to directly plug into the networks due to his unusual alt-mode.

"Blaster, I know you don't agree with this war, but when you've been around as long as I have you'll see that there is no easy way to end a conflict. What the Decepticons is doin' is wrong, but we can't change that with words alone." The aged Autobot sat heavily next to the younger bot his aged face creased with a kind smile.

"There are battles easily fought, and then there are battles easily won. Most times, you can't have both. You watch those messages, update me and Prime, and keep looking for ways to turn their tactics back on them. Even the slightest advantage could save lives even if it doesn't win the war."

"Okay, Kup." Blaster replied, the self-doubt plaguing him for not being able to do more for his unit. The pair fell silent, each waiting for Prime to arrive on scene to finally lead the military now that the final attempts at negotiation had failed. The Council still hoarded their energon, the Decepticons still targeted the Neutrals. High Consulate Max Mixer had refused to heed the demands of the mine workers who claimed that there was enough for all and then some. He along with the majority of the council members had allegedly hoarded a store of energon equaling half of Cyberton's core capacity. Their perceived greed had forced the Decepticon's hand in this battle, and now with lines drawn there was no turning back.

"Ooh we got an update and it ain't good, the entire council is evacuatin'. We got sixteen ships launching simultaneously in different directions." Blaster reported as he delved deeper into the ongoing feeds Kup stood from his perch, standing to guard the young communications specialist. They needed this youngling to stay on-line. His talents were second to none, and not easily replaceable.

"He's correct the council members are fleeing. Max Mixer was destroyed earlier by something I've never seen before. A grey mech capable of flight without an aerial alt mode ripped the Consulate in half, right through the spark chamber. We're on our own now with the Neutrals as our burden to bear. Most of the higher Elites have fled as well. Cybertron has lost nearly one-third its population today." The speaker stepped fully into the room as she spoke, her massive frame filling the room, forcing Kup to look up at her.

"Solus Prime" Kup saluted, his back to Blaster who remained submerged in his data streams.

"Kup, how is the lad holding up?" Solus asked kindly, her light gold face creased with concern.

"He's holding up well, Prime. The youngling is smart and he's a crack reader. I haven't seen a mech with his skills since I landed on Planet Xeleon in the –"

"Old friend, this is not the time for your war stories. Get Blaster out of that data stream and move out. We've got incoming." Prime interrupted curtly forcing Kup into action.

"Here, Prime. I figured you might want this. Here are the destination coordinates of all the Consul members. In case we actually see the end of this warfare." Blaster spoke up handing a data chit to their commander. Prime looked at the tiny data chit, knowing that the only hope for restoring balance to their world lay in ensuring those who had instigated this atrocity came to justice. With a heavy spark she merged the data chit into the Autobot Matrix of Leadership, in the hopes that some future Prime would be able to correct the misdeeds of this era.

"Move out, we'll regroup outside of Kaon." Solus ordered as she fell into her alt form, the massive form of an energon transport vehicle filling the room until she moved forward enough to allow Kup to fall to his smaller alt form with Blaster's alt form resting comfortably upon the dash. The three traveled swiftly, the two commanders rolling quietly through the late orns finally reaching the rendezvous point just before shift change for the new cycle.

The troops cheered as their commanders approached finally allowing those left in charge to defer to them for guidance after far too long a time of being in control of an army none knew how to run. The cheering drowned out all other noises, including Blaster's final warning before a massive explosion rocked the land. Plumes of flame and shrapnel tore into Solus Prime and Kup sending Blaster flying from his perch to skid painfully across the battlefield shrapnel tearing into him leaving only a small tattered communicator lying forgotten upon the ground.

* * *

Maincharger sighed as he walked through the Academy med bay. Everywhere he looked he saw scared recruits and hopeless wrecks of once proud mechs and femmes. The mechs being cared for here were the roughest, meanest mechs on the Autobot force. Some had been nearly dismantled by the constant warfare while others had developed fatal glitches in their processors and had been rendered nearly comatose, only their sparks still functioning along with their frames that constantly twitched in a sick parody of functionality. It was his hope that they could be defragmented, debugged and returned to active duty, but their chances were grim. He had the skills and the best equipment to repair them with. Yet few received the care they actually needed, he just lacked the time and enough skilled assistants to do the smaller tasks that took up all of his time. There were too many patients and students, but not enough full medics to take care of and train them all. He needed more skilled hands in the bay.

"Maincharger! There is an emergency at the entrance!" Delta cried as she ran into the med bay in terror. "We've got energon septicemia, full mech unresponsive with green, bleeding optics." the terror in her voice was great and for good reason. Mechs with such symptoms occurred only when they had become addicted to their fuel source. The fuel lines flooded with the excess fuel and the taint of unprocessed energon turned the optic lenses green while micro vessles in the lens burst with the pressure of too much energon in the lines. If left alone for too long they eventually cut their own lines just to stave off the pain of the tainted energon eating at their lines.

"Then we'd better hurry, grab my kit. The poor spark probably lost his unit in an attack." The aged grey and purple mech raced along behind his younger apprentice. The pair folding mid stride down into their alt modes seeking greater speed to ensure the survival of one more mech.

Maincharger had seen many things in his long existence and little surprised him these days, but the sight of a blackened and tarnished mech that shimmered an iridescent white beneath the soot that covered him from helm to treads with the stripped down build of a slave-bot could not have surprised him more.

"Primus, it's a creator bot" Maincharger swore, ignoring the confused glance from Delta as he knelt down by their newest patient. "These bots were outlawed before the end of the last golden age."

The shimmering bot lay sprawled upon the steps of the Academy its jaw a raw silver of fresh metal. The lower mandible was the wrong make and size for its face making the poor creature look malformed, disturbing the very spark of Maincharger as he knelt over the larger mech. In its left hand it clutched a stack of slim plates bundled together in a miniature magnetic field generator. Each miniature rectangle was slim and delicate, the topmost one bearing a creator's glyph. Main charger looked over the bot in stunned shock. The poor wreck had no alt mode, no armor and no subspace storage. The creature was a glorified protoform and he instantly felt sorry for the thing.

"Delta, hand me the energon drainage pump. We need to get this started before it goes caustic. It _is_ a creator. Designed to build and spark bots custom ordered by those with the credits to afford its maintenance, or the fees of its keeper." Maincharger explained as he set up the drain. "It needs to be watched, and if it becomes functional again, kept from all spare parts and free sparks. The last creator bot was decommissioned well before my creator's creator's time. That one had begun building terminally glitched protoforms. They would crawl off the manufacturing table, find the nearest populated square and begin dismantling themselves before exploding when any approached to stop them. It was so traumatizing there was a rash of mass suicides." Maincharger fell silent, suddenly noticing a strange vibration within the frame beneath his hands. "By Primus! It's talking. No creator bot has ever been given vocal processors. Who would do this?"

The pair leant closer to the frame, each activating vocal scanners within their audio processors straining to detect patterns in the creator bot's vocalizations. As they enhanced and re-enhanced the static filled and garbled words they recognized a litany they knew by rote and stared in awe at the tattered frame beneath their hands.

"A medic is neutral to order or faction, he shall not take sides in conflict or anger. He will aid all and protect those under his care from harm and injury wherever he may hold his practice. He will do no harm. All are his patients, none shall come to harm under his care and never shall a medic take that which Primus has given. –"

"It's repeating the Oath." Delta whispered with trembling hands. "How does a slave know the Oath? Only medics with proper training are taught the full oath." Her sad yellow optics looked over the shimmering white form before them and sighed. "What kind of chance does this thing have?"

"Slim to none. It's got more energon in its lines than any six mechs ought to have."

"Extra capacity – fill six protos without losing functionality." The bot murmured clutching the magnetic field in its hand tighter as it slowly fell off-line, blue optics of such a rare brilliant shade of cobalt shimmering through the green haze just before they were claimed by the darkness of being in recharge.

"We, my friend, have a very lucky mech on our hands." Maincharger sighed as he stood. "We'll need a transport to carry this guy to med bay. I'm not trusting two mini-bots to carry this large a mech." The pair stood guard until one of the larger medics in training came to carry the creator bot to med bay. The pair never speaking of their suspicion of what their newest patient really was, or that they had come to think of it as a he.

* * *

"So, what is a creator bot with vocal processors doing this far into the slums? The Academy has not been in a good part of Cybertron since Megatron came on-line." Reccus looked the still recharging mech over in the silence of the med bay. The CMO of the Prime detail was on loan temporarily while the Ancients identified their next Prime as their previous one, Terminus lay in the Memorial awaiting deconstruction.

"I haven't the slightest notion as to what he's doing here, but I do know that if I can get him functional again I just might have the help I've been looking for, I'm getting too old to run this place solo. Besides, he looks strong enough to face down half of the front liners that make my job so difficult. If he can't handle them, then we'll look into more drastic measures!" Maincharger replied firmly as he worked on yet another replacement arm assembly for old Ironhide. The medics looked to where the old guard lay in recharge, fresh repair welds crisscrossing his frame once more.

"You'd think he'd learn by now that he can't keep throwing himself before every Prime he serves and expect to keep them on-line. He's been the personal guard for six now, and all of them have nearly brought him down with them. I'm constantly afraid that the next Prime will take him to Primus along with half our numbers." Reccus sighed and rubbed the back of his helm in resignation.

"I sometimes wonder what the Ancients are thinking when they assign us our Primes. Terminus Prime never fought a day in his life before he was chosen, neither had Contact. If we had just listened to Blaster we might not have lost Solus. I miss that youngling."

The pair fell silent, Maincharger bending once more to work on the assembly. Neither spoke of the dilapidated wreck that remained of Blaster. Both medics had worked over the poor youngling's frame over the many passing vorns, neither had accomplished anything. There was little they had been able to do for him aside from stabilizing the mech in stasis. Neither held any hope for reviving the red mech as it had been so long since he had been damaged and the complex transformation sequence along with his extensive use of subspace condensation to utilize his alt form was beyond even their level of training.

Reccus stood, sliding the assembly away from Maincharger's steady hand. "If you keep tooling with this you'll reconfigure his transformation sequence. Come on, I'll reattach it for you." The elder medic led the way to Ironhide's table. In silence the assembly was reattached leaving the medics with little do aside from walk the rounds of the med ward. Too many lay in deeply fragmented stasis, and there was little they could do for them.

Even as they just paced through the ward the many wounded forced both medics to constantly take care of one patient or another. Energon drips had to be replaced, manic fighters restrained as old bonds were worn through with their constant struggles. It was exhausting knowing they only had a few astroseconds for each patient, and even that was too long a time to devote to any one spark when so many had to be cared for .

* * *

It came on-line slowly, diagnostics racing through its system ensuring that all protocols were still in place. Optics scanned the curtained off repair table it rested on noting the many tools placed nearby just in reach for the local medic.

No restraints bound it to the table allowing it to sit up. It noted in passing that its surface plating gleamed once more, allowing a tiny pulse satisfaction to pass through its lines. Its masters had never allowed it to be filthy and though they were now no longer a threat it still was more content with a clean frame. Standing silently it paced the small space its table took up. Beyond the curtain the soft conversation of mechs could be heard.

Such was of no concern to it, however. It bent over the many racks of tools identifying each one, inspecting and noticing how most were worn. A twitch of annoyance moved its shoulder, an unconscious glitch it had developed over its existence. The tray was pulled towards the repair berth, each tool sharpened and repaired. White hands handled each tool with experienced care. Within the joor each tool was brought as close to its original state as possible, some beyond repair were scanned, copied within the massive chest, manufactured within a miniature factory fueled by energon and trace elements alone.

It looked the tools over with a critical optics, cycling vents as it suddenly realized it was tired and lay back down for recharge. Processors stilling it slipped into the depths of recharge, its processors replaying memories best left forgotten, pressing misdeeds to trouble the quiet spark that shuddered with unrecognized grief deep within its chest. Beneath all recent distresses that plagued his resting mind a disturbing voice lost to conscious memory repeated a mantra from long ago.

* * *

"Ah'm sure glad you two finally came back, whatever you've got back there was makin' a racket like you've never heard before. Sounded like the Unmaker was crawlin' from the depths o' the pit." Ironhide shuddered and looked back to the curtained off repair berth with a trail of fear glowing behind his optics.

"Ironhide, we found a slave bot, we don't know what it's capable of, but my experience has taught me to never let slaves get a hold of only partially functioning mechs." Reccus looked down at Ironhide calmly, "It's time to get you out of here, we'll deal with the slave."

Ironhide glanced from the unusually quiet medics to the now silent curtain and nodded, standing and limping for the door, his wounds were patched, he would heal back on base, then stand at yet another Prime's side willing to die for yet another who would undoubtedly find himself in over his processing capacity.

The pair watched the guard limp away and sighed. They had hoped this slave would be able to be salvaged, but if he was already attempting something when they were not around then they would be forced to put him in permanent stasis lock. The thought was disheartening, but they both knew their duties went to their patients first, slaves would always have to come second, if at all.

"Let's get this over with." Maincharger shook his head sadly, wishing there was another option open for the slave. Reaching up he pulled back the curtain and stilled, watching the slave recharge, the stack of tiny plates once more held tightly to his chest.

"I don't want to off-line him." Reccus sighed taking in the image of the distraught creator clinging desperately to what was left of its toils.

"Maybe we won't have to." Maincharger replied with a hopeful smile, "He's been keeping himself occupied." They looked over the tools, now the best in their med ward, each shone brightly the old tarnish and dulled blades renewed.

"Let's switch the trays, maybe we can keep him here a little longer." They took the repaired tools with them, swapping out another tray and gathering all of the older tools that had been cast aside as being beyond repair. The little curtained off area the creator rested in was too small for all the tools, sighing in resignation Maincharger took down the screen, filling the room with old tools and left.

* * *

It on-lined, knowing immediately that things had changed since it last had on-lined its optics. Sitting up it took in the tools placed around the room on every available surface, and the lone ration of energon sitting in the middle of the room. Unknowingly a small smile twitched the corners of its misshapen face, it would be kept, its new masters allowing it to serve as a maintenance slave. Such a fate was acceptable.

Immediately it began to work, repairing and cleaning tools as it worked, sometimes remanufacturing them entirely. All were replaced with the greatest care and forgotten. It worked thorough every tool in the room, never responding to its occasional visitors though he monitored them closely, silently tensing every time they approached the berth he had rested on and the tiny bundle of plates that rested there, still contained within their magnetic shield.

During its keepers third visit the short one came too close to the little plates reaching to touch the only things the slave creator knew to be precious. It responded without processing its actions, grabbing the nearest repaired scalpel it lunged at the small mech, slamming the scalpel into his hand, pinning the offending appendage to the table as it grabbed the plates and retreated, huddled trembling and nervous against the back wall. Cornered, knowing it would be off-lined for attacking a keeper, the creator knelt, lowering its head for the terminating strike that was sure to come. The termination strike was always through the spark, instant and clean. The slave pressed the small bundle against its chest plate, the strike would pierce all that remained of what had once been, allowing it to finally reunite with those it had failed to protect.

"Well, I guess that's all the proof we need. He can't be a drone if he's willing to die protecting something." Recus stated calmly as he removed the scalpel from the thin plating, noting the precision with which the blade had been placed as not a single line or cable had even been scratched. Only the plating had been damaged and even that was minor.

"So, what are we going to do with you?" Maincharger approached the slave cautiously still trying to get his spark out of his intakes and back in its chamber where it belonged. The slave had borne an expression worthy of the fiercest Decepticon. Faceplates twisted into a mask of fury there had been an actual spark gleaming in his amazingly blue optics.

"I don't think he realizes were talking to him." Reccus blew out a gust of exhaust, "I really hate doing this." He knelt before the slave, scanning the creature and the plates it held so dearly before finally acquiring its designation.

"What are you doing?" Maincharger asked as he welded the torn dermal plating back together with a microwelder.

"Every slave is embedded with an identifying tag, this one's creators were sick though. They gave him the designation 3-1-0." Reccus looked Maincharger over and smirked at the younger mech's blank expression. "I keep forgetting you're too young to remember the old days. Back then the signs for medics all bore the numbers 3-1-0, it referred to the points of a triangle, its center and the termination point of any line."

"I still don't understand." Maincharger replied bewilderedly.

"During the last part of the Golden Age it was thought that the three factions formed a triangle, and that as long as each existed there would be strength for our species. The medics stood at the center of everything the single point between existence and deactivation. They were thought of as the ratchet that kept our species from destroying itself they brought together the three sides of the triangle to the single point they protected as they guarded against the zero of nothingness."

"Oh." Maincharger looked over the slave that still knelt before them unmoving and unflinching as it awaited deactivation.

"Three-one-zero, return to work" Reccus commanded, sounding harsh and uncaring, and hating himself for doing so. The creator stood, face pointed towards the floor as it kept the little plates with it and returned to where it had last been working, claiming and replacing the scalpel as it passed.

"Well, he knows his designation. Now what?" The medics stood side by side and stared at their guest watching with critical intensity as the silent bot moved about its self assigned duties.

"Three-One-Zero, finish your work, then take your energon. I want a full diagnostic run on you next duty cycle." Maincharger finally spoke up.

"Diagnostics functional – minor repairs required for acquired vocal and mandible assemblies. Three-one-zero can perform repairs. Repairs require new plating for neck dermal replacement. Mandible assembly requires recalibration and plating to incorporate into facial structure." The static filled voice that issued from the repair bot was dual toned, higher of a femme and lower of a mech. The two voices were out of synch with each other creating an echo as he spoke.

"Okay, if you want to do the repairs on yourself there will be some consequences." Maincharger rumbled, "First, you will learn to speak like a normal mech. Second, I refuse to call you a number. Find yourself a designation. Third, you will let me look at those plates you're so possessive of. And fourth, I need to know how you came across your vocal and jaw assemblies."

"Slave protocols prevent compliance. Unable to fulfill requests, data classified – cannot be revealed." The bot continued to work, unfazed by the questioning. Maincharger and Reccus looked at one another in stunned surprise.

No one had ever mentioned enforced protocols being placed upon a slave bot before. They were just created and the parameters allowing free will were left out, or at least that was what the rumors all spoke of. "Slave protocols, deactivate them." Reccus requested hoping this would be an easy fix, knowing that he would have to return to his detail soon and that too many patients beyond those double doors required their attention.

"Master command code invalid." The slave replied and stilled in his work, face twisting into a dark scowl. He turned his head looking directly at the medics for the first time. "Three-one-zero requesting medical assistance – actions require extensive repairs." With a swift motion the bot grabbed the nearest lazer scalpel activating it as he thrust it deep within his neck barely grazing his main energon lines and frying circuitry as it passed through the thick cables supporting his neck and into the lower portion of his cranial periphrial processor banks.

"Damnit! He's totaled his protocol drives!" The medics immediately bent to work rushing through emergency repairs striving to keep ahead of a cascade failure. The protocol drives were directly linked to the main processors through micro energon tubules and wiring. If one became too badly damaged the tubules would rupture and drown the other resulting in complete processor failure and force the spark to be harvested for resparking. Neither wanted to lose the knowledge this mech held. The bot had already repaired items beyond their technical grasp and if he was this good with just tools, what could he accomplish with Cybertronians?

* * *

Slight pain brought him from recharge, pulling the sluggish processors into functionality. Emotions long cut off filled his lines, excitement, resignation, grief, hope – _rage_. It felt amazing to feel again, and he was grateful despite the deep seated anger and fury that he could not completely grasp. He on-lined his optics staring at the now familiar ceiling of the med ward, "Heh, guess it worked after all."

"You! How dare you do something so irresponsible?" Maincharger raged at the larger bot still resting on the repair berth with trembling fury. "If we had been even one microsecond slower you would have been in reclamation instead of the med ward!"

"No offense, but you two weren't doing anything and I was fraggin' sick of playing lackey." The mech replied evenly, the curse flowing from his vocal processor smoothly with the tone of one experienced in such language.

"Wh-what?" Maincharger looked the white mech over, ignoring the still disturbing voice. The blank stare from the brilliant optics was gone replaced with a darkly brilliant angry light from his perfectly round optics filled with anguish and anger that caused Maincharger to tremble at its intensity. This had not been a pro-programmed slave bot, this was an enslaved mech. The realization was sickening, and terrifying.

The white mech glared down at the mini-bot, looking the smaller mech over with piercing optics. "You and the other _keeper_ had requests my protocols kept me from answering. I believe that issue has been rectified, I can now process your requests."

"W-we want-ted an alternate designation for you, full repairs and for you to speak like a normal mech." Maincharger stammered nervously, suddenly feeling like a youngling before the strange mech.

"Designation Three-one-zero, previously requested self-repairs. I believe my speech patterns now match requested parameters. Do I get my repairs or do I have to listen to myself echo til the next Golden Age?" The creator scowled evenly at the mini-bot, challenging the other to contradict him.

"Your vocal assembly?" Reccus asked pointedly, staring evenly at the white mech despite the tremor that shuddered through his frame at the other's intense gaze.

"Circle Dancer." The mech scowled, "She killed younglings, I killed her. She didn't need this anymore." He looked to the magnetic shielded stack of plating. "I may have been slaved, but I could still feel. I created each youngling from the primordial code up. These are all that remain of them."

"Fine, Three-one-zero, you can get your repairs." Maincharger replied looking away from the white bot and the still gaping wound in his neck.

"Don't call me that! Fragged megavorns of that designation, slaved to sadistic fraggers. I'm no protector against the Unmaker."

"Then what should we call you?"

The bot looked to the side repair table where the small stack of miniature plates rested. A sad smile pulled at his pirated lip components, twisting his visage into a sick parody of a creator. He reached his arm up, grasping the small bundle, reclaiming that which he held so dear. "Ratchet – that which tightens."


End file.
